


If You Insist

by ShannonXL



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Comfort Food, Cunnilingus, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Mentioned Katrina Crane, Nightmares, Open Marriage, Penis In Vagina Sex, Polyamory, Post-Coital Cuddling, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 03:36:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2798087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShannonXL/pseuds/ShannonXL
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jenny and Ichabod bond over sleepless nights, hot food, and comfort television. They're friends. They just don't know what kind yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Insist

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nighmetalmousie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nighmetalmousie/gifts).



When Ichabod wakes up, it helps to take stock.

He knows that it is the middle of the night, the watch Lieutenant Mills has so considerately left for him says it is three minutes past two in the morning. He’s cocooned in a warm cotton blanket, and the mattress beneath him is soft and surprisingly stable. The room smells like pine and the tangy soap Detective Mills had called ‘castile’. It’s midwinter. If he listens carefully, he can hear the sounds of snow falling, the delicate, breathy kiss of flakes upon snowbanks. His breath is minty, which he’s still not quite used to (he prefers the powdery ‘baking soda’ the Lieutenant first introduced him to whilst updating his dental routine). The rush of adrenaline fades, and his heart settles back into his chest.

He takes one breath, then another. Dreams. Nothing the rational mind can’t conquer. 

He’s almost coaxed himself back to sleep when he hears footsteps outside. 

Bolting upright, at first Ichabod is sure it’s just the vestiges of a nightmare. But no, there’s the distinctive sound of the doorknob, a subtle click which precedes a dull creaking as the front door opens. 

He jolts out of bed, struggling into his clothes. Floorboards creak outside, and Ichabod tries to remain calm. If only he had a damned telephone! He makes little noise, though even the minuscule sound of the fabric sets his heart pounding. He peers out of his door, left ajar. The lights by the entryway alight, but the footsteps come no closer to his chamber. 

Ichabod reaches across the bookshelf to his left, hoping to find the sharp, heavy paperweight there without taking his eyes off the potential intruder. Unfortunately, he jostles the lamp, and it falls with a mighty clatter, shattering. The movements outside the door stop. 

Ichabod hears a click. A rifle?

In a panic, Ichabod kicks the door aside, brandishing his fists with a mighty fury. “Ahgh,” he bellows, scanning the room for his opponent. 

Dumbstruck, aiming her gun with efficient accuracy, Jennifer Mills stares back at him. 

“Crane?”

He blinks.

“Miss Mills?”

She lowers her gun.

“Aaare you okay?” 

She nods at his fists, still upraised. Belatedly realizing his rudeness, he places them promptly at his side.

“Begging your pardon! Yes. Quite fine. I mistook you for an intruder, which, clearly you are not, you are always most welcome here-”

“It’s fine I,” she waves her hand. “I should have called or something before coming by so late. “Sorry,” Miss Mills places her gun in the holster over her shoulder. “I need a few of the books I left here.” She bites her bottom lip. “Didn’t realize you were a light sleeper.”

Ichabod waves his hands.

“It is I who should be sorry. I did not intend to startle you.”

She shrugs.

“I startle easy.”

He rubs his hands together.

“Be that as it may. I would be remiss if I didn’t offer you a hot drink.

She smirks.

“You’re still shaking. I should probably be offering _you_ a drink.”

Ichabod realizes that she’s been covering her mirth for quite a few moments. Flushing, he inclines his head to her.

“Very well. If you must insist.”

She snickers.

“Oh, I must.”

* * *

 

Jenny lays the plate down with a flourish.

“There. Cinnamon toast and a hot toddy.” She beams. “Perfect cure for being woken up in the middle of the night.”

Ichabod presses his palms together in what she assumes is gratitude.

“Thank you, Miss Mills. Are you not going to partake?”

She raises her own glass at him

“I’ve got two more slices in the toaster. You chow down.”

He’s confused for the second it takes him to remember that she’s telling him to eat. He then places a paper napkin in his collar, adjusts his chair, and cuts a dainty piece of toast for himself. It’s a bizarre ritual she’s seen before, but it never gets old. She leans against the counter, comforted by the smell of melted butter and her mother’s secret blend of spices. The noise Ichabod makes when he tastes it lets her know she’s perfected it.

“Oh my.” He pats his lips with the napkin. “This is excellent.”

“It’s the least I could do after scaring the crap out of you.”

He shakes his head.

“No apologies are necessary. I understand that Sheriff Corbin welcomed you here on many occasions. This place is as much your home as it is mine, is it not?”

She almost tells him no, a gut instinct to lie that comes from too many untrustworthy resources and too few friends. Too much time spent in the company of people who’ve treated her like she’s not entitled to anything, not time or respect or a roof over her head. But Ichabod is smiling, and he’s not making fun of her, or afraid of her. He’s sitting in Corbin’s chair, wearing the same welcoming grin that once told her she wasn’t losing her mind. That the monster she was hunting was real. 

She nods.

“Yeah. He let me stay here for a while.”

The bell on the toaster goes off. 

“Well then, Miss Mills.” Ichabod spreads his hands. “You must make yourself at home.”

She scrapes butter across her slice of toast.

“You sure? I was planning on doing research all night. I don’t wanna keep you up.”

He shrugs.

“It will be no inconvenience. I assure you. I haven’t been sleeping much as of late.”

She sprinkles the cinnamon and cloves in thin spirals across the bread, watching him over her shoulder. His posture is so rigid, it’s easy to overlook the other details she’s now noticing. There are faint creases around his eyes, and his smile is weary. 

“Nightmares?”

His brow furrows.

“Mortal ones, thankfully. Nothing to concern yourself with.” He wrings his fingers. “I suspect they will pass, as soon as the concerns that plague me in my waking hours are resolved.”

Seeing as Ichabod is supposed to prevent the impending apocalypse, Jenny has very serious doubts about the likelihood of those concerns getting resolved any time soon. She takes a bite of toast, chewing while she thinks.

“I used to have nightmares. When I was a kid. Seeing a demon probably had something to do with it.” She shrugs. “Want to know what I did?”

Ichabod nods. Jenny reaches into her bag, pulling out her laptop. 

“People say tv is mind-numbing. Sometimes that’s exactly what you need.”

* * *

 

They settle onto the well-worn couch, both with fresh slices of the delicious cinnamon toast Miss Mills was kind enough to make. Ichabod cuts another bite while Jennifer fiddles with the computer in her lap (she’s so adept, he doesn’t understand how anyone can work so quickly with such a machine, there’s just _so much_ information stored inside them). Her fingers skim over the keys with a familiar flourish before she places the computer gingerly on the table in front of them. 

“Crane, allow me to introduce you to Glee.”

Music begins to play, at an alarming volume, and Ichabod almost drops his fork. He thinks he’s managed to conceal his blunder admirably, at least until he hears Miss Mill’s stifled giggle. He’s about to protest when something catches his eye.

“Who on earth is that?!”

He points to the screen.

“Him?” Ichabod nods. “That’s Mr. Shue. Well, that’s the name of the character, I think the actor’s name is Matthew. Why?”

Ichabod can’t stop staring.

“He looks remarkably like Mr. Arthur Morley.”

Jennifer pauses the show.

“Is that… someone I should know?”

Ichabod shakes his head.

“No, he was. I. Knew him very well. A long time ago.” He winces. “A _very_ long time ago, as it were. Perhaps this actor is a descendant of his.”

Miss Mills shrugs.

“Anything’s possible. Were you friends or something?”

Ichabod cuts into his slice of cinnamon toast again, pondering.

“In a way. He and my wife were lovers. Our paths crossed but seldom, yet I had the distinct impression of a well-spoken individual whom I, oh my Miss Mills I’m sorry have I upset you?”

Jenny tries not to choke on her sip of hot toddy burning in her throat. She wipes away a mirthful tear, trying to catch her breath.

“No. It’s not… Crane, I don’t think that word means what you think it means anymore.”

He puts down his fork and knife, endeavoring to be delicate with the late Sheriff Corbin’s fine china.

“Oh dear. Please tell me the word ‘lover’ hasn’t adopted an unsavory connotation-”

“Not completely. It’s…” Jenny covers her face. “It’s… God it just feels wrong explaining this to you. It’s a sex thing Crane.”

He feels himself flushing.

“Forgive me. I was under the impression that such dalliances were common nowadays, but it appears I was mistaken-”

“Wait.” Jenny puts down her glass. “You’re telling me Katrina. Your wife. Had a… gentleman friend. That they had a relationship. While you were married?” Ichabod nods. “And that was chill with you?!”

He waves his hands, palms up and open. 

“If you are asking whether or not the fires of jealousy were not allowed to come between us, then yes, I suppose my demeanor could be described as ‘chill’.” He resumes his cinnamon toast, with fervor. “We had an understanding.”

Jennifer’s eyebrows appear to be making an escape attempt via her hairline. He waits for her to question him, but eventually she presses a key on her computer and the images begin to move again.

“Okay. I would not have pegged you for an open-marriage kind of guy.”

Ichabod has to agree on that point.

“We were not always forthcoming on the subject with others. It was not exactly the ‘done’ thing in my day.”

Miss Mills giggles.

“Not really the ‘done’ thing today either.”

“Be that as it may,” he punctuates his point with another heavenly bite of cinnamon toast, savoring the warm, sweet flavor. “When we wed, it was under dire circumstances. War was on the horizon. I was to be a spy. And, as I later found out, my wife was to contribute to the war effort through her witchcraft. We knew we were to be parted for undue lengths of time, so we agreed we should find comfort where we could.” He smiles, remembering. “Knowing she was well-cared for made the nights apart easier to bear.”

Jennifer pauses the video again.

“So, you were never jealous?”

Ichabod chuckles.

“Not as much as I feared I would be. No, Katrina and I are bonded, heart and soul. That bond is what matters most.”

Miss Mills contemplates his words.

“That’s really beautiful Crane.”

He beams.

“I love an exceptional woman.” He rubs his hands. “Ah, but I’ve distracted you from your entertainment. Shall we resume?”

She does, and they watch uninterrupted until the early morning hours. Ichabod makes a note in his recently acquired journal to investigate more songs by the ‘One Direction’ Jennifer mentioned was responsible for one of the rather catchy songs on the program. 

* * *

 

Jenny warns Crane in advance the next time she comes over. She even picks up dinner, and tries not to laugh when he samples drunken noodles, handing him a sip of her soda before his eyes begin to water. He bids her ‘good evening’ a few hours after sundown, and she settles onto the living room couch for another long stretch of research. 

She’s rubbing her eyes and rereading a passage on Aramaic priesthoods when she hears it: a faint treble coming from Crane’s room. She places a pencil in the center of the book, leaving it on the coffee table. Jenny tries to step quietly, having memorized the locations every creaky floorboard in Corbin’s house long ago. The noise gets louder, more frantic, and she holds her breath. She’s frozen outside his bedroom door. Should she wake him up? Or would that only make him panic?

It’s decided for her; Ichabod wakes with a shout. 

Jenny gulps. She listens to him breathing. When it sounds like he’s evened out, she knocks.

“Crane?”

She hears him sigh.

“I’m quite all right.”

She hears a rustling behind the door.

“Can I get you anything?”

After a moment, Crane opens the door. His eyes are bloodshot, and his clothes are disheveled; he’d clearly dressed in a hurry. Despite his breath, still coming in heavy pants, his cheeks are pale.

“My apologies. I’m sorry to have disturbed you, Miss Mills.”

She fights the urge to tuck a stray curl behind his ear.

“It’s no biggie. I was stuck anyway.” She almost reaches for his hand. “Let me get you a glass of water?”

Ichabod smiles down at his feet.

“I’m sure you have better things to do.”

Jenny shrugs.

“Not really. I don’t know enough about Aramaic _Masamsonos_ to get through the chapter I was working on anyway. I’m probably going to have to find an expert.”

His brows quirk.

“May I be of service?”

“Did you understand what I just said?” She laughs. “Because I didn’t. Which makes you a better candidate that anyone else I’ve got handy.”

She pours a glass of water while Ichabod skims the book, handling the pages with reverence. The color returns to his cheeks and he accepts the glass of water without looking, taking sips as he examines the passages she’d marked earlier. He grins, pointing down at the bottom of the page.

“You see this passage? It’s been mistranslated. That’s why the rest of the text is befuddling you.”

She glances over his shoulder.

“How can you know that? The original language isn’t there.”

He nods.

“I’ve read this passage before. A closer translation would be ‘orhs’, or, ‘moon’. So, it should be read ‘in the language of the moon is revealed the truth’.”

Jenny chews her lip.

“But that makes even less sense.”

Ichabod nods.

“Of course, one has to take context into our evaluation. It’s part of an extended metaphor. The moon in this passage refers to womanhood. From this we can infer that the female members of the priesthood were the keepers of an important truth.” He looks up at her, eyes sparkling. “Does that correlate with the rest of your research?”

She nods, slowly.

“It does. Do you remember where you last saw this text? The original?”

“It was at Oxford. I imagine the current faculty have not destroyed it. I can transcribe the rest if you wish it-”

She straightens.

“No. I mean, if you could write out a translation for me, that would be great. But I’m going to need to look at the original copy. If I’m right, there’s a message carved into the edges of the pages.” She stretches, cracking her shoulders. “The female members of the priesthood used to send coded messages that way. And _fortunately_ I met a medical history buff willing to teach me.”

Ichabod inclines his head.

“I take it you’re off then.”

Jenny shrugs.

“Well. Not _tonight_ anyway.” She nods at his water glass. “Finish that. I’ll sit up with you.”

Ichabod leans back against the couch and lifts the glass, but doesn’t drink.

“You needn’t stay. I’m quite used to these disruptions.”

She sits down beside him, and nudges him with her shoulder.

“I don’t mind.” She looks up at him. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He shudders.

“I’d prefer not to.”

She nods.

“Okay.” His shoulders are tight, and his shudders aren’t letting up. “Hey.” She takes his water glass, throwing her arm over his shoulder. “It’s all right.”

She rubs his back. He closes his eyes, waiting it out. He takes a deep breath, filling his lungs, and lets it out slowly, sighing. When he opens his eyes, they’re clearer. He smiles at her, warm and tentative.

“Thank you, Miss Mills. I’m fortunate to count you among my friends.” He looks up at the clock above the fireplace. “And, if the time is correct, I should try to resume my slumber.” His brow wrinkles. “And you- don’t tell me you intended to journey home at this late hour?”

Jenny tries not to roll her eyes, her usual response to chivalry, knowing Ichabod actually _means_ it. 

“It’s not that big of a deal.”

“But surely there are dangers at night for-”

She cuts him off with a look. He knows pretty well by now that she’s more dangerous than almost anything she’s going to come across on her way home. The creases around Ichabod’s eyes crinkle.

“I mean no insult to your prowess of course. But I must offer you a place to rest. It’s the gentlemanly thing to do.”

She does roll her eyes at that.

“And what are ladies supposed to do? Accept?”

Ichabod grins.

“I think you would be the expert on that, Miss Mills.”

She laughs.

“Fine. I’ll crash on your couch. If you insist.”

“On the couch?” He looks appalled. “I can’t allow it. No, you must take the bed. I will… crash, upon the couch.”

Before she can argue, Crane’s offering his arm to her. She can’t help but beam as she accepts. He escorts her to the bedroom door, bowing to her as she crosses the threshold. 

“Good evening, Mr. Crane,” she mimics a curtsey. 

“And to you, Miss Mills.” He tips an imaginary hat in return, then leans in, pressing a chaste kiss to her cheek. He leans back, just an inch, and whispers in her ear: “Sleep well, my lady.” He presses a delicate, chaste kiss against her temple before he leans back, a shy smile crossing his lips. 

He returns to the couch before she can respond, turning out the lamp as he passes. Dumbstruck, Jenny closes the door, and it clicks shut in her hand. She covers her mouth, stifling a giggle. _Crane_ , she thinks, _you sly dog_. 

* * *

 

Ichabod isn’t expecting Jennifer, but the tread of her heavy boots on the front porch is familiar now, and he listens to the sound of her scraping snow from her shoes with warm anticipation. He’s got a pile of texts he imagines will appeal to her scholarly curiosity, and the Lieutenant was kind enough to loan him a collection of ‘digital videos’ that he’s had every intention to peruse. He understands that this is an activity better enjoyed with company. 

He answers the door promptly when she knocks, holding a rucksack on her shoulder. 

“Crane,” she looks up at him with a wobbly smile. “What smells good?”

“I’m attempting to master the new appliances in the kitchen.”

He ushers her inside, taking stock of her appearance: her hair isn’t as neatly coiffed as usual, and the set of her shoulders is disconcertingly tight. He’s not sure about her attire, as modern accouterments still escape his understanding, but he suspects that the fabrics are more worn than Jennifer seems to prefer. 

“Oh? You’re cooking?”

Her smile brightens. Ichabod takes her coat, hanging it neatly by the door. Her demeanor isn’t out of place. He wonders if perhaps he should be more self-conscious about his own attire; traces of flour line the sides of his trousers and he’s left his collar open to relieve some of the heat of the kitchen. 

“Indeed. Since it seems my stay in your era is permanent, I am endeavoring to acquire the necessary skills to maintain my independence. And as I have no desire to subsist solely on the Scottish monstrosity your sister favors-”

“You mean McDonald’s?”

She’s laughing, but not in a cruel way. Ichabod inclines his head to her.

“As you say.”

Jenny peers into the kitchen, sniffing.

“So what are you making?” 

“Molasses graham bread, and potato soup.”

Jennifer looks impressed. She nods, leaning over the stove. She flicks on a light, which Ichabod was _not aware of_ which is frustrating because _it’s extremely useful_. He can see inside the oven without opening it! Miss Mills straightens, taking a deep, content breath, absorbing the aromas of the kitchen. 

“I gotta tell you, this was not a skill I expected you to have.”

He smiles.

“It was uncommon for the men of my era to involve themselves with this kind of labor. I found that I enjoyed the process of cooking when I came to the colonies. When I left my father’s household to join the revolution I found myself without many of the comforts I was raised with. Once learns the value of a thoughtfully prepared meal after living on salt pork and cornmeal for months on end.”

Jennifer ladles a bit of soup for herself, cooling the spoonful before she tastes it. 

“It’s good.” Her eyes are wide. “Old school recipe?”

“No.” He flushes. “I discovered it on the internet.”

She chuckles, seating herself at the table. 

“You’re adjusting. Way better than I would be if I ended up living in your days.”

He takes the seat opposite her.

“Well. My society was not without its flaws. It is heartening to see the strides this country has made since sits inception.”

Her brow quirks.

“Heartening?”

He nods.

“Though some were not as… expedient as I would have liked.” He shakes his head. “I have been reading. I wish.” He closes his eyes for a moment. “I wish I had been there, sometimes. I cannot know with any certainty that I could have made a difference.” He looks up at her. “But I would have tried.”

Jennifer reaches across the table and squeezes his hand.

“You’re making a difference now.”

He smiles. Behind him, the timer buzzes.

“Ah! That will be the roast beets!”

* * *

 Jenny doesn’t mean to fall asleep, but she does. The combination of hot, rich food (better than she’s eaten in days), the comfortable couch, and the restless nights she’d spent in London all come crashing down on her. When she wakes up, the end credits to Batman (the 1989 Michael Keaton) are rolling, and her cheek is firmly pressed against Crane’s shoulder. 

She rubs her eyes, leaning away from him.

“Sorry…” she licks her lips. “How long was I out?”

Crane doesn’t seem bothered.

“About an hour.” There’s a concerned line forming between his eyebrows. “You seemed content to rest, and I had no wish to disturb you. Though I regret you did not see how the story ended.”

She scrunches her nose.

“I’ve seen it before. I used to watch it all the time when I was a kid.”

“Ah.”

The music plays over a comfortable quiet. When it stops, Jenny gets up to turn off the TV, stretching her back as she does. The lights are dim, and when she turns to look at Crane he seems soft, yet solid. 

“Are you all right, Miss Mills?”

“Hm?”

He laces his fingers in his lap.

“You seem… drained, from your excursion to Britain.”

She shrugs.

“Getting what we needed was harder than I thought it would be.”

His brows comes together, heavy with concern. 

“Do you wish to speak of it?”

She considers, then shakes her head, walking back to the couch with slow, deliberate steps.

“No. I don’t want to talk at all, I think.”

His cheeks are rosy in the dim light of the cabin. He offers her a shy smile, tipping his head to the left. 

“Oh?” He unlaces his fingers, resting his shoulders on the back of the couch. Jenny takes it as an invitation. She stops to stand just outside his reach. Enough space to offer, enough time for him to move away. 

“Nah. I’m not much of a talker. I guess you can blame my upbringing for that.”

Crane smirks, _smirks_ , and she finds herself grinning right back. It’s an expression too precious for words.

“What do you propose we do to fill our time, Miss Mills?”

She takes a deep breath, smiling down at him. Gently, she steps forward, into his space, letting his knee brush the inside of her thigh. 

“We’ll come up with something.”

He slides one hand down, touching her leg. Not pulling, or grasping, just warm and present against her skin. 

“More of your modern entertainments?”

She chuckles.

“Sort of.” And with that, she slides down closer, landing in his lap with a resolute plop, her feet dangling off the edge of the couch. "On second thought, no," she whispers. "This is as old school as it gets." He wraps his arms around her waist, avoiding her more sensitive areas, as if he’s still wary of her intent (or however he would describe his brand of respect). He looks up at her, breath warm against her collarbone, pupils wide and dark. She strokes his neck, underneath his ear. The resulting tremor in his lips is adorable. 

“Miss Mills, I must admit, I am _deeply_ interested in this idea of yours.”

“Oh, _my_ idea?” She leans in close, her lips a bare inch away from his. “I think you’re a bad influence, Crane.” She closes the gap, and kisses him. 

He reacts with enthusiasm which surprises her. He gasps underneath her, and it goes through his entire body. His hands around her waist tighten, until he’s gripping her, still loose, but she can feel the tension in his fingers through her shirt. He rises up to meet her, and she wraps her hand around the back of his throat, her fingers tangling in his long, loose hair. She deepens the kiss, pressing her tongue against his lips. He parts them, letting her. 

She rocks against him, and a deep, throaty sound escapes her chest. His breath speeds up in response, and he places a hand on her shoulder blade, helping to balance her. She leans over him, breathing in his air. It tastes good. Molasses-soaked and warm. She can hear her own heartbeat as she slides her fingers through his hair, tugging it gently. When she breaks away from the kiss, he moans underneath her, and the vibrations travel through her from head to toe. His eyes are closed, overwhelmed by the sensations. 

She doesn’t let up. Instead, she begins to trail kisses down his neck, exposed beneath her. She coaxes heavy, deep noises from him as she scrapes her teeth against the delicate skin. Open-mouthed, she lets her tongue flicker out, tasting him. 

His hand begins to slip into her hair. He stiffens suddenly, opening his eyes to look at her through a hazy, arousal-filled gaze. 

“Is this, am I…”

She kisses him once, briefly. 

“It’s fine. I’ll tell you if you do something I don’t like.”

“Ah.” His grin turns wicked. “Well in that case,” he strokes her cheek. “Come back here then.” She lets him lead her face back to his, kissing him with gentle urgency. His other hand trails down her side, grasping her butt. With a slow, deliberate rise of his hips, he grinds up into her, pushing her down against him. The kiss stutters, but she doesn’t pull away, nipping at his lips to draw his attention back up, even as she repeats the motion, sighing into him. 

He tugs at the elastic in her hair, letting it loose around her shoulders. She presses her forehead against his, breaking the kiss for a moment, letting her hair fall around them both. 

“I wanted to see what it looks like.” He whispers. “You’re beautiful.”

She scrunches her nose at the compliment.

“I know.”

 

Crane’s chest feels as if it’s about to shatter. His heart is hammering against his breast, and Jennifer Mills is looking down at him, bathed in light, with a warm smile crossing her lips that doesn’t fade from her eyes. He drags his fingers across her buttocks and hip, enjoying the sensation of skin trapped beneath fabric. 

“Should we migrate somewhere less upright?”

There’s a hint of laughter in her voice that he wants to indulge. He shrugs.

“If you insist, sweet lady.”

And with that, he brings both arms underneath her, and lifts her. 

She lets out a small noise of surprise, but her arms are sure and stable around his shoulders, and she doesn’t wriggle. He carries her into his bedchamber, leaning over the bed and depositing her tenderly onto the mattress. He begins to rise away, but she wraps her legs around him. 

“Going somewhere?”

He flushes.

“I have, em. I’ve been advised that prophylactics are-”

Jennifer is grinning.

“Prophyl… you mean condoms?”

He nods, at a loss for words.

“Aw Crane. Who gave you the sex talk?”

“One of the gentlemen from the online gaming community I’ve enlisted with was extremely informative on the subject. Though his instructions tended towards the vulgar on many occasions…”

Jennifer leans up to nuzzle his neck, and the words trickle away from him. He sighs, warmth spreading through his limbs. He strokes her shoulders, trailing his fingers along the soft material of her shirt. The soft noise she makes in response turns his knees to water, and he has to take a deep breath before he can separate.

“Just for a moment.” He picks up her hand, laying a kiss on her fingertips. “I swear it.”

He rises, and he can feel her eyes on him. He opens the top drawer of his dresser. Arranged neatly on the left corner are two parcels that he was relieved he didn’t need to ask Lieutenant Mills to purchase for him. The small stipend he’s received from Revolutionary War re-enactors for his consultations was more than enough to cover some more private necessities (even with the outrageous addition of the state _and_ federal tax). 

When he turns again, Jennifer is waiting, and he can’t find in himself his usual ire regarding modern taxation policies. 

“Ready?”

He grins.

“Oh yes.”

He drops the parcels on the mattress. Jennifer greets him with open arms upon his smooth glide back onto the bed, kissing him slowly. Her fingers creep up his neck and into his hair, and he wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her close. She rises to meet him, opening her legs, creating a space for him between them. Her knees rock against his hips as she sways, grinding up against him. He gasps, the movement making him feel tight and loose all at once. Jennifer tugs on his collar, breaking the kiss to look into his eyes.

“Is this okay?”

He nods, his breath shuddering.

“This is most certainly okay. By any and all definitions.”

She gives him a peck on the cheek.

“Then we should get this off.”

With that, he feels her hands pulling up his shirt, and he feels obligated to assist. He kneels between her thighs and raises his arms, tossing the garment in the corner after its removal. Jennifer leans forward, kissing his chest, lips trailing down his abdomen. Her hands find their way to his waist, exploring below his belt, and the begins to stroke him through his pants with her thumb. He can’t hold back a groan as she presses against him with a taunting amount of pressure. 

Miss Mills beams up at him, toying with her own collar.

“Shall I?”

He licks his lips.

“If you wish.”

She reaches behind her back, unhooking something. She sighs, and Ichabod flushes when he realizes that he’s watching her chest rise and fall. When he looks at her face, Jennifer is amused. With crossed arms, she pulls her shirt over her head. Her skin is dark and soft, glowing golden-brown in the dim lamplight. 

“May I?” He whispers.

She tucks her fingers behind his ear, guiding his movements.

“You may,” there’s laughter in her voice.

He brings his lips to her breast, cupping her other in his palm. He rubs his thumb against her nipple as he begins to lick, dragging open-mouthed kisses across her skin, giving only the barest hint of teeth, coaxing light, pleasant sighs from Jennifer’s throat. His hand strays lower, teasing, using her fingers in his hair as an indication of his effectiveness. Below her bellybutton: tight. Across her ribcage: loose. One finger stroking just inside her pants: _very_ tight. 

“Crane,” she gasps, “go for it already.”

He chuckles. 

“Very well.”

He unhooks her trousers, tugging them gently from her legs, pressing hot kisses along the inside of her legs as the fabric falls away. Jennifer wriggles free. Ichabod lifts one of her ankles, resting in on his shoulder, while he reaches between her legs to massage the skin still concealed by Jennifer’s undergarments. She makes a pleased sound, her hips swaying to follow the deft strokes of his fingers. He makes slow circles with the ball of his thumb, delighting in the answering wetness spreading through the material of Jennifer’s small pants. She answers his glance with a nod. With all the tenderness in the world, Ichabod slips his fingers underneath the thin cloth, pulling it away to reveal love’s altar. 

He leans in, warming her with his breath, and licks.

Jennifer sighs. Ichabod is well-versed in such ministrations, but first, selfishly, he wants only to taste her. He runs his tongue up and down, getting her full essence. The scent alone is heady. He licks his lips, intoxicated, before rubbing them against her. Jennifer’s breathy sigh ripples through her body. 

“Don’t stop Crane.”

Never one to disappoint a lady, Crane complies with pleasure. She spurs him on, the ankle around his shoulder flexing as he laps at her skin. Fast swipes, meandering waves, he teases out which she prefers best. He slips a finger inside her, making a beckoning motion as he strokes her with his tongue. Each throaty sound above him sends a shock down his spine, and he hastens to readjust his breeches. Jennifer must notice, because she looks down at him with a crooked smile, eyes clouded with a sensual gaze. 

“Comfortable?”

He feels flushed.

“Exceedingly.”

Her nose wrinkles as she beckons him.

“Come here.”

He crawls above her, and the moment he’s within rage she captures him in a kiss, cooing when she tastes herself on him. She reaches down to unfasten his stays, and he assists her, fingers tangling. They giggle at the frustration. He can’t contain his groan of satisfaction upon being released. Miss Mills wraps her hand around his staff, rubbing with firm assurance. Were he in peril of feeling emasculated, he might deny the sound that escapes his lips to be whimper, but his skin is aflame and he can’t muster the will to be ashamed. 

She kisses his chest.

“Crane?”

“Mmm?”

He feels her smiling against his skin.

“You said you had, um, what did you call them?”

“Ah!” He gasps, then blinks. She’s awaiting his answer. “Yes. I, er… over,” he waves his arm like a blind man. “Somewhere.”

She follows his train of thought, searching the bed. Jennifer finds the discarded products before he’s caught his breath. She retrieves the small cloth with unerring surety. Tearing one of the small parcels open between her fingers, she watches his reactions from under long eyelashes. 

“You’re sure?”

He nods.

“Are you?”

She slides it over his stiff rod; the armor feels like air. 

“Absolutely,” she whispers, lying back. She spreads her legs, pulling at his hips with her knees. “Come _here_ ,” she commands. 

He obeys. Holding himself steady, he pierces her with a shallow, deliberate thrust. Her eyelids flutter, but her expression is warm and pleased. At her nod, he enters her further, with almost painful slowness, until he’s sheathed to the hilt. She moans, rutting up against him. 

“Please, move.”

He kisses her cheek, leaning closer to whisper in her ear.

“I aim to please, my lady.”

At her startled giggle, he leans back, plunging in again with more force. Her legs twitch around him, spurring him on. He adopts a laborious rhythm, coaxing her with his finger as well as his staff. She kisses him with ferocious passion, fingers wrapped around his shoulders. He feels himself approaching completion, and wills himself not to spend until Miss Mills’ pleasure is complete. 

He’s not kept waiting long. Her legs tighten around him, and her breath catches in her throat, drawing out a long, sweet groan. He rocks into her, persuading her body to extend the fire. 

When she finally goes slack in his arms, he releases himself, closing his eyes when the sensations become overwhelming. 

 

Jenny tries to move, but she can still feel her orgasm in her _toes_ ; every muscle is thrumming with aftershocks. Crane collapses with a sigh beside her, his face buried in one of the fluffy white pillows. His expression is blissed-out and easy. He fiddles with the condom, depositing it in the trash by the bed. After a few deep breaths, she’s able to tuck a rogue strand of hair behind his ear. He smiles at her touch, catching her hand. He lays a kiss on her palm, and the touch of his lips sends another shudder through her core. 

“Good?”

He nods.

“Very.” Opening his eyes, he lifts himself onto his forearms, examining her. “And you?”

She laughs.

“I can’t feel my legs. It’s awesome.”

Crane blushes.

“I’ll consider it a compliment, Miss Mills.”

She dolls to her side, stretching. 

“Mind if I stay the night?”

He smirks.

“Mind if I stay with you?”

She nuzzles his nose.

“I’d be insulted if you didn’t.”

He hums, lifting his arm. She snuggles beneath it, and he hugs her close, pulling the blankets up around her shoulders. It feels warm and soft and safe there, and she feels sleepy in a way she doesn’t remember having felt in months. Not drained and exhausted, just relaxed. 

Crane kisses her forehead, rubbing her arms.

“Rest well, Miss Mills.”

“You too Crane.”

They do, and their dreams are, for once, merciful. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I had a lot of fun looking up antiquated words for sex. Here's where I found most of them: http://io9.com/three-timelines-of-slang-terms-for-having-sex-from-135-1608522982


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